


All We Have is Now

by reset-after-reset (relvius)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, Public feeling up, Sad smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:24:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relvius/pseuds/reset-after-reset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It just hurts to try to be with him, but you keep coming back every reset anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. here

It’s not like Sans will remember any of this, anyway. So, in the long run, it hardly counts, right? Just one last moment with him. Then you'll let him forget and live his life (lives) without your shadow hanging over him.

You find Sans this time around at his stand in Hotland, half-asleep with one arm propping up his head. As soon as you turn your attention towards him, towards this one moment in time, he startles awake and shivers despite the heat. He’s immediately on guard, like he often is when you first appear to him. How sadly predictable.

You focus yourself into a visible form to his side, and he jumps. In his eyes (well, one eye, glowing now) you see confusion and fear and dread.

“wh--who are you?”

This is where it should end. You disappear, leaving him to ponder over this one strange phantasm, which he'll eventually decide was a waking hallucination -- at least until the next reset, after which it won't matter at all.


	2. stay

… No?

Alright, then.

GASTER, you tell him, and all the knowledge floods into him and snuffs out the lights in his skull.

After a few moments, his more ordinary pinpricks flicker in. “oh, i-- sorry, man.”

We're not interested in pointless reintroductions and apologies, are we?  You move towards him and bring him into a hug, hands against his back and head and arms (more than two -- it’s hard to contain them around Sans). His touch hums more vibrant and sweet than anything else in the Underground. Hesitantly, he returns the gesture.

God, you’re going to miss this.

The thing about these hands is that they’re so easy to summon up already inside of Sans, under his clothes, fingers already gripping through his ribs. He jolts, then laughs and begins to say, “no need to be so handsy. let's--”

“Sans?”

It's Alphys. Sans’ arms snap back to his side and he practically stumbles to get behind his stand again. He places an elbow on it and rests his head against his hand, as if Alphys had found him like that.

“Um, what were you…?” She's staring straight at you -- through you, of course: Sans is the only one able to see or feel or know about you at all, but for a moment you consider trying to give her a sign. Then again, even if you could, no reason to try to inject yourself into someone else's memories, especially when this will be the last time you reach out into the timeline at all, right? Anything would just frighten her, at best.

“nothing. th-the usual, doc?”

His stammer makes you realize you've still got hands on (in) him. It's not like you're going to let go and potentially let go of your anchor on this reality. In fact, you grip harder, one hand’s fingers digging into the familiar crevasses of a vertebra. Sans immediately reacts by straightening up, although he seems to try to cover up the sudden movement by grabbing some food supplies.

Actually, this might be fun.

“Yes -- oh! Undyne wanted me to ask you, if I saw you, how, uh, fireproof your house is?” She gives her all-too-familiar nervous laugh. “I think it has to do with that training Papyrus is getting? She won’t tell me a lot about it.”

“yeah it’s, uh, pretty secret, isn’t it? it’s fireproof enough, th-thanks.” He lightly smacks one of your hands by his ribcage. Cute. As if that'll stop you.

“What do you think they're doing together?” Alphys is clearly not paying the most attention to Sans, the way her gaze drifts up towards the cavern roof. “You know, I’ve always had the feeling your brother has a lot of hidden power he's not telling anyone. That's how these things go, right?”

“yeah,” Sans mumbles. “shit--!” A sharp intake of unnecessary breath and a spasm through his body makes far too much ketchup squirt from the bottle into the hotdog. All from a hand materializing around the base of his spine, fingers stretched across the top of his pelvis. You know exactly where to touch him best.

Alphys is silent for a few moments. “Are you okay…?”

“yeah just… wrong bottle, y’know? hah.” He tosses the ‘dog into the lava behind him and tries again, much slower this time. You can't even make him repeat the mistake by petting his hips, although a long shaky breath lets you know you're doing the right thing. Let's take this slowly now: light caresses across the inside of his ribs and down his spine. You can feel him shiver.

“Well. Uh,” Alphys says uncertainly. She's watching Sans’ hands more closely now, perhaps suspicious. Of what, we can’t say.. Her next words come more slowly. “Undyne also says to stop selling hotdogs on the clock. So, um, maybe keep an eye out for her?”

Sans nods absentmindedly. You feel him roll his pelvis away from you, and so as a punishment you summon a hand at the front of his groin. He thrusts gently into it despite himself. Alphys’ “usual” is delightfully complicated -- mustard, relish, and now some pre-diced onions.

“Are you sick? If you're sick you, um, probably shouldn't be handling food.”

Sans doesn't even respond this time.

“Sans?”

“here.” He thrusts the hot dog into Alphys, who barely catches it in her surprise. “on the house.” He’s hissing through his teeth (well, figuratively). Longer sentences are probably beyond him now. You curl your fingers against the front of his pelvis to see if you can bring out a moan, but all we get is another thrust.

“A-alright,” says Alphys. “Thank you. Um. Have a nice day?” She leaves slowly, once shooting a glance back at Sans, who watches her carefully with that idle smile of his.

As soon as Alphys is fully off of the screen, he unravels. Resting most of his weight on his stand and the rest on your hands, he bucks into you. He lets out a breathy noise, something between a laugh and a moan, followed by the word “fuck.” You indulge him for a time, a reward for keeping his cool. And he looks so good like this, knees weak even as he thrusts hard against the air, head down and eyes shut tight to just focus on you.  However, when his movements become more and more uneven and his quiet moans (he’s still trying not to be too obvious, poor thing) grow louder, you stop. He's still moving into you, but your hands just follow the movement and give him nothing.

“you ass,” he says to the space in front of him. “-ter.”

You swell. There, that's the Sans we remember, defiant and irreverent and sharp. So often he's practically steeped in resignation even in his interactions with you. The old pet name (of sorts) helps too. Practically chirping in joy, you take him somewhere better -- his bedroom. Suddenly without a surface in front of him, he falls forward with a surprised yelp and lands perhaps a bit too hard on his bed. He hardly gets the chance to roll onto his back before you’re on top of him, seeping into his ribs and hips through the edges of his clothes.

Imagine what this would be like if (what this was like when) your magic and existence were stable; your form, coherent; your presence, not tenuous and at risk of slipping into the void. If there wasn’t this urgency in holding, clinging onto Sans and drinking your fill of him (not that anything really fills, of course) because it’s only so long before even his touch can’t keep you in reality. Even now, if you focus, you can feel the static creeping in through the seams -- reality bending as it struggles to make sense of your wrongness.

No, focus on Sans. He’s here, between your fingers, smiling and eager and starting to squirm. And you, right here and now, positioned over him (you’d be straddling him if you still had legs) and inside him. You move the hands in his rib cage the slightest amount, featherlight touches at the back of his sternum. He arches his back and whines, “gaster.”

Yes, good. You lean over him, pressing down on his spine and back of his ribs to pin him to the bed. Some more hands keep his arms still, one intertwining into his fingers. BEG, you command.

Not that it was particularly necessary, the way he’s squirming and whining, but asking so plainly always puts such a sweet expression of embarrassment on his face. “gaster.”

YES? You trail a single finger around the top edge of his hips, relishing the small movements he makes to try to follow the sensation.

“gaster, please--!”

His voice raises nearly an octave as you finally give him what he wants, stroke the base of his spine hard, grind a palm against the front of his pelvis, fill him up with your cold shapeless form. He throws his head back and moans incoherently, perfectly.

(You feel the prickly fabric of spacetime crawling on your back.)

Before long, he bucks into you and clenches your hand hard as orgasm rolls through him. He shudders against your continued movement until you stop and just hold him, savoring how his chest moves up and down with his breathing.

“please don't leave,” he says, so quietly you nearly miss it.

You frown.

“you always leave, don't you?” Sans opens an eye to look at you. “just-- hah-- hit it and quit it, huh?”

Already you're removing some of those many hands from his chest, but despite yourself, you find some of your darkness wrapping around his legs and shoulders.

“how often do i get to see you twice before a reset…?”

Never, not with existence straining against you. It's already hard to concentrate on anything other than Sans’ touch. Even his image seems so far away, starting to splinter. PLEASE FORGET ABOUT ME, you tell him.

“you don't exactly make it easy,” he says with a humorless laugh. He sighs and turns his head to the side, and you can just barely make out tears. “it's not your fault, though, is it? that this is all we have?”

You nod. And reality is twisting all wrong wrong wrong, every moment in time straining against you trying to kick you out. It hurts.

“i’ll work harder on the machine.”

You'd tell him not to, that this is your last meeting anyway and you intend to be out of his lives forever, but it's not necessary. There’s nothing but resignation and sheer fatigue in his voice.

You squeeze his hand one last time, and then you're gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it wouldn't hurt to [reset,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5409863/chapters/12498680) would it?


End file.
